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Scarecrow Dreams

If by night I move without aid,
what then? Precious flesh, precious
bone, never mine to lose – the difference
between nothingness and no thing. A
pity that my friends fly at the merest
movement, but when the air’s breath
stills, they sing and rattle among the
grain, scribing their days in song
and footprints, seeking the available
on the ground. And what scrolls lower
than the sound of sunflowers turning?
The laughing daughter runs around
my lattice spine, scattering joy like so
many seeds, and when my hollow
fingers clench, the earth quivers, or
so it seems. Then midnight returns
and I disengage and stalk about,
scaring rodents and their predators,
hooting in harmony with the owls
reveling in the night air, remembering
the holy shirt, a yellow glove, corn
silk’s gleam at noon and the warmth
of your fingers against my burlap skin.
I do not breathe, I say, but I exist. By
morning what joins me but the tune
of yet another bird, unseen, melodious,
the pulse of morning’s dew. Eternity.
How my straw tongue longs to sip it.

“Scarecrow Dreams” first appeared in the summer 2017 edition of Eclectica.Many thanks to poetry editor Jen Finstrom, for publishing several of my scarecrow poems.

“And what scrolls lower/ than the sound of sunflowers turning?” I had to stop there for a moment and breathe. What a line…I keep turning it over and over in my mind and spirit. Perhaps there’s a poem seed in there for me, as well, about sunflowers, which hold a special place in my heart. Excellent work, as always. Thank you for sharing it.

So many things going on here between the birds singing and scribing, the sound of sunflowers turning, and the scarecrow in your series who is a type of seer. I found myself pausing to relish, read it out loud. Thanks for sharing, Robert!

I, too, responded to “the sound of sunflowers turning” – feeling an urge to pick up pen and write! But then perhaps Scarecrow has spoken sufficiently. And the little girl’s apparent bond with Scarecrow is delightful. Oh, to be her!